


This Is Our City

by hardcoredolphin



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: (semi) long fic, M/M, nondespair au, spoilers for mondo's backstory, this is my first story here goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardcoredolphin/pseuds/hardcoredolphin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It comes to you again as you stare out, following the vast lines of track with your eyes. “This may not seem like me, but I swear, the first thing I’m going to do when I finish school is get out of this city. It’s the capital, so I have to go back someday, but… I’m not sure, really. I think it’s trapping me.”</p>
<p>He smiles, bitter and rueful, through lips that can form hard lines without necessarily being thin. “I’d join you.” He kicks a stray rock with surprising force a foot over the tracks, to have it land, skittering, on the other side. “Hell if I wouldn’t join you. We’d take our bikes, and I’d even drive slow for you if you if you wanted.”</p>
<p>You match his smile exactly. “Watch the language. And I’d like that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is going to progress pretty slowly, but hopefully the amount of angsty boys will make up for it

It’s a good old school, you suppose, even though on top of everything it’s more of a real-time research lab, the students participating little white rats navigating a twisting maze in search of the source of talent. Even though, on top of everything, it feels more like a circus. That is, until you arrive.

Which, like all days, is at exactly seven am to take care of organizing school events or to attend disciplinary meetings until seven thirty, which is when your patrol starts. You make the rounds at a brisk walk, as usual, ensuring that no one tries to sneak in something illegal before school technically begins, no one is causing any vocal or physical uproar, and no student is subject to any sort of malicious intent. You have eyes like a hawk for harassment, and can pinpoint and deal with even the most discrete attempts to bully. Oh, and the halls. No running in those.

Said halls are vacant and silent save for the click of your shoes on the tile and the shift of your suit jacket against a rectangular tub as you stride to the washroom with the express purpose of filling said container with water, looking occasionally from side to side and from classroom to classroom in case there were any disturbances you need to act on. One of the downsides of being a class representative: you frequently miss important parts of the lesson to fetch this or do that chore for the teacher, and you’ll have to be filled in on the steps to this chemistry project, you’re sure. If anyone answers you when you ask. 

You would drink in the silence and the sun streaming through the tall windows all day if you could, bask in all the balance. But the washroom is right around the corner, and you can’t keep your classmates waiting on an important lab grade. You pick up your pace slightly, ever so slightly, a smile forming on your lips as the sinks grow closer and closer, peering inside a full classroom and smiling wider as you find it in order.

Your foot is right where the floor changes from hall tile to washroom tile when something, big and tall and heavy, barrels out of a stall and right into you, yelling “MOVE ALREADY,” even on the way down. You’re knocked off your feet and out of breath, landing square on your rear end with the tub, still thankfully empty, skittering halfway across the hall. As the world tilts back into focus, you become aware of what crashed into you sitting, splayed awkwardly and unabashedly rubbing the seat of its own pants, a good meter away from you. The clothes are disheveled, and at the very least you notice a lack of a tie before realizing that the entire ensemble just… doesn’t exist. In its place is an off-white, thin wife-beater with a collar so low that you can see the lines between the pectoral muscles. Above that rests a long, dark jacket with a high collar that you can’t believe would be worn in spring. And the pants, even with a… belt of sorts…maybe, are so baggy and worn so low they reveal both boxers and steep pelvic lines. You realize that what you are looking at is a person when you find the face, muttering streams of unimaginable curses under… good god, is that hair? It is, apparently, and it only takes another look to know that it, too—an unnaturally blond, huge pompadour that seems to defy gravity—is one hundred percent illegal. And that speed; you don’t know what to address first.

But before you can speak, can even reach for the tub, he’s already talking, his voice a half-drawl and rough from who knows what. “The hell is your problem?!” You wince. “Ever heard of watching where you’re going? You’re lucky I didn’t do worse.” You glimpse his eyes as he tilts his head up to meet yours, challenging, and discover they’re a sharp, cold violet-gray.

You know you’re not supposed to take the bait, you’ve known it since you stopped taking it however long ago it was (elementary school, maybe). But you give in nonetheless. “You ran.”

“Hah?” His brows furrow and his mouth opens, but not stupidly. You notice sharp canines and wince again, even though you know, somehow, that he wouldn’t stoop so low as to bite you in an attempt to escape.

“You were running right at me! Bursting out of my peripheral vision, even! How could I notice you in time to even stop before you hit me?” You quickly adopt your standard authoritative tone, hoping it will work. “Running in general is completely against the rules anyway, for the very purpose of preventing what just happened here! And why are you in school, anyway?” You challenge, eyes sweeping over him critically before meeting his again. He breaks eye contact, the very hand that was tending to his (probably bruised) rear scratching at the long, undoubtedly greasy hair on the back of his head.

“What d’you mean, why am I in school? I go here, genius,” he snaps, and the last comment makes you bristle.

“In that?” You gesture to his uniform, or lack thereof, before reaching over to the tub and placing it in your lap.

“…It’s been a while, okay? So I don’t know where my monkey suit is,” he retorts, free hand clenching slightly at his side. “What’re you gonna do about it? Sue me?” Perfect.

You whip a pad of paper out of your pocket crisply and cleanly. “Report you, actually,” you reply, “but you were close.” You click out the tip of a ballpoint pen and poise it over the pad. “You just bumped into the hall monitor. Name, please.” You hear a low ‘god fucking damn it’ and reply, “Is that your real name, or should I add your language to this?”

“Oowada, for god’s sake, it’s Mondo Oowada.” Your eyes go wide upon hearing the name, and you scribble it down.

“You mean the Mondo Oowada?” You ask, hurriedly filling out the rest of the form. This time his eyes go wide, or rather, wide as they can go.

“As in Daiyamondo?” He sits up straighter, as if he expects you to know the name. You don’t.

“As in the Mondo Oowada that always shows up on my homeroom roll but is never there,” you answer, and his face falls. He’s gruff, you realize, but just a bit transparent. “How many times have you been to class, anyway?” It’s not a request, but a command to answer.

“First few weeks, I think.” His cheekbones, high and tan on his face, adopt the slightest bit of pink tinge. You add his apparent truancy to your notes and stand up. He stares at you as if you’re going to lend him a hand before pushing himself, grumbling, to his feet. “You gonna turn me in now?” He asks, casually, as if he’s used to this. Then again, he probably is.

“First I’m going to fill this with water and deliver it to the chemistry room; they’re long overdue. Don’t try and lose me,” you add, making your way over to the tap and turning the cold water on as much as you can. “Oh, and if you want to know my name, it’s Ishimaru. Kiyotaka Ishimaru.” He snorts.

“’s the kinda dork name I’d expect from someone like you.” You can feel his sneer on the back of your neck. “Kiyotaka.” He snorts again.

“I don’t believe I approved of us being on a first name basis at any time,” you snap back, turning the faucet back with cold restraint. “But I do have to ask you why you think that.”

You turn around to a lopsided grin that would work well with his face if his personality didn’t make the entirety of him so unpleasant to look at. “Well, for starters, you act like you have a ten foot pole wedged up your ass. Or maybe,” he pushes it even further, “it’s just one of your eyebrows. Same difference, y’know.” He shrugs, as if what he said was in no way offensive. 

Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let it get to you. “Really, how much do you want me to report you for?” You let it get to you. Oowada’s eyebrows furrow, the corners of his toothy smirk turning down.

“What, you want me to get ousted or something?” He retorts, following you obediently as you walk toward the chemistry room, maybe with the thought in his head that you could actually do it. At least, you hope it is.

“With your attendance record,” you state matter-of-factly, “you’re obviously not contributing to the school environment, much less your record, but that’s not for me to decide.” It occurs to you that you could get just as in trouble for your behavior as he can for his. In fact, you’re puzzled by your sudden animosity. Normally, you’re stern, but never so much that you pinpoint things that might not even be there. It’s cruel, and you don’t like it one bit, but something about him gets under your skin and brings out this nitpicky, almost prejudicial side of you and you don’t yet know how to stop.

“You little… I’m thanking my lucky freakin’ stars that I’m in here too, so don’t knock it.” He raises his voice, and you press a finger to your lips in response as you enter the chemistry room, tub and truant in tow.  
“Mondo Oowada is here today,” you announce. “I’ll do the job of taking him to the office for tardiness, unacceptable wardrobe, and others.” The teacher nods as you set the tray down. “I have no problem about starting without me. Excuse me for interrupting.” You bow, and your eyebrows (which aren’t as thick as ten-foot poles, really) knit in frustration as Oowada just moseys out the door without a single dip of his head. You start the small talk—or are you just continuing your previous conversation?—after you shut it behind you. “What is it you got into Hope’s Peak for, again?”

Another grin tugs at his face, and you don’t know whether to be concerned or disturbed. “Gang leader. How about that?” Your heart drops to your gut, face turning cold. It’s possible? He could get accepted into a prestigious institution for basically breaking whatever he touched? Has he vandalized? Stolen? Killed? Your blood runs cold as your face, but your temper flares unexpectedly. 

“And why,” you snap all of a sudden, “would that ever be a qualifying feature for a school based on trying past your talent, when you were chosen simply for the fact that you don’t try at all?” In an instant you’re spun around, gripped painfully by the shoulders for a split second.

“You take that the hell back.” Those cold, pale eyes aren’t so cold now, but filled with something white-hot and menacing. “I know I’m no good, but you’re gonna regret ever saying that I don’t fucking try. Remember that.” Oowada’s hands clench and unclench at his sides, veins standing out dangerously, and you’re getting the feeling that he might become violent.

Your voice is calm as it can be when you retaliate with a simple, “I am not going to fight you.”

He stuffs his hands, still balled into fists, into his pockets and strides ahead of you. “Just take me to the goddamn office already.” You follow him, knowing you should feel more remorse for what you said, apologize at the very least, but really, it’s almost the beginning of summer, and he hasn’t even been in class since those first few spring weeks. You decide to keep your pride and finish your walk silently, saying only a few quick words to the secretary as you deliver both the reports and the student mentioned. His hands move as if to flip you off as you leave, but the secretary motions for him to take a seat, so he yields with a ragged sigh.  
\---  
The next time you catch sight of him, he’s leaning on the seat of a garish, probably gas-guzzling motorcycle—which you didn’t notice outside this morning; tardiness at its finest—just a bit too nonchalantly. You realize these things in the following order:

1\. He doesn’t have anything to preoccupy him. No phone out, no friends to talk to or books to read… he’s just. Waiting.  
2\. The bike rack in which he has parked his motorcycle was the very one in which you lock your bicycle every morning.  
3\. Said bicycle is gone, save for the single wheel you used to lock it to its spot.

Alarm bells blare in your head, filling it, and they all scream ‘Mondo Oowada.’ You know that going over there means trouble, but there has been a theft—an actual theft, the first one you’ve witnessed—on school grounds, and there is no way you can avoid dealing with it. Gathering up your courage, you stride right over to him, placing a hand on the rack upon arrival in the hopes that the small gesture provides a more casual impression. “Oowada,” you start, not really caring to add any sort of honorific, “Do you happen to know what happened to my bicycle? I parked it here this morning, you see, and now there’s only a wheel left…” You trail off as you notice that the look on his face is one that someone would give a child who asked if the moon was made of cheese.

He seems to be both holding back laughter and straining for an answer as he replies. “Oh, you wanna know what happened to that old red thing. So y’see Kiyotaka—”

“We are not on a first name basis.”

“—Fine, whatever, hall monitor guy… Ishi… Ishimaru? Sure, why not.” He got your last name right, but his level of concern (none) still makes you cringe. “So y’see Ishimaru, my ah… one of my boys… his bike is in the shop, right? So he needed something to ride home on, and he… lives close to here. So he tried to get yours, but it was locked, so he… probably got mad, said fuck it, and took it from the wheel.” There’s that lopsided grin again. “That answer your question?”

Yes, it did, but at the same time no, it did not. There goes your temper again, and your voice is tight and restrained as you say, “I want my bicycle back, Oowada.”

He shrugs. “Told ya, I don’t have it. Why’re you pinning this on me? I already got a threat and a half about the sack, so your job is done. Vamoose.” He makes a shooing motion with his hands, his expression deadpan.

“You’re the only one who’s affiliated with the man who stole my bicycle, and you seem to have a bit of a grudge against me, so I figured…”

“Grudge against you?” He nearly chokes on his laughter, deep and raucous. “Look, kid, you’re the one who tried to oust me because I haven’t been here much, first day we met. I’d rethink your statement if I was you. Plus,” he stands up, cracking his back, then his neck, and you can’t tell if it’s in a casual or threatening manner, “How’d I know whose bike is whose? Lookit all these bikes. How was I supposed to pick yours out of them?”

That won’t fool you. “I wrote my name on the lock, Oowada.” You kneel down, take the lock in your hands, and unlock it to have with you, and watch the wheel topple uselessly to its side. “Why did you steal my bicycle?” As you stuff the lock in your bag, you look up at him and meet his eyes, eyebrows upturned in a sort of look of pity, but there’s this light to his eyes that means that if anything, he does not pity you, and just like that his shoe is planted square onto your chest, and he gives a shove. 

You’re back on your rear end again, making a very unattractive ‘oof’ing sound as the breath is driven out of you. For the next few seconds your breath comes in throaty, shuddering gasps, and as you stare bug-eyed at Oowada he gives a small ‘hmph,’ as if in triumph. He walks up closer to you, and suddenly there’s a big, square hand yanking you up by your shirt collar and bringing you uncomfortably close. There are definitely cigarettes on his breath and possibly the pungent tang of alcohol, and those nearly colorless eyes are boring into yours as he growls, “That’s for ratting on me.” He shoves you away, and you stumble a few feet, all the coordination you took classes for gone as you break your fall with your hands. “And that’s for a good second impression.” His grin is almost feral as he climbs deftly onto his motorcycle and speeds away, making an unimaginable amount of noise.

The first thing you do after gawking for a good minute or so more is march right into the school office and fill out a convenient little form about the incident that winds up making him stay after school for a good part of the next month.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait. I took a trip where I couldn't transfer the chapter to the computer with internet, so hopefully the next chapter won't take such an obscene amount of time. Anyhow, enjoy what will probably be the most lighthearted chapter in the entire fic. (and of course these boys are not mine)

Chapter 2

That first incident becomes the precedent for scores more between the two of you. Oowada would do something barely prohibited to frustrate you, both of you knowing that if you dared report him for it, you would be seen as overly stringent and subsequently distrusted. He would push you ever further, until he slipped up and you were able to inform the authorities and he would have still more time added onto his seemingly endless detention. Fruit and rice thrown or flicked at the back of your head during lunch became an almost daily occurrence, and when you learned you shared a kendo club, every sparring match between the two of you became foul after foul after foul. By the second week, your instructor pulled you aside to give you an intense lecture about how worried he was for you, an influential player on the team. And frankly, you were worried for you too.

But Mondo Oowada was coming to school now. Daily, and you weren’t sure how you felt about the sole purpose of his attendance being the get under your skin, but if he was here, you were doing your job.

Of course, your newfound lack of a bicycle and your family’s inability to afford a new one at the moment left you with the obligation to change your morning routine to fit your longer walk to school. This included an earlier rise (and therefore an earlier bedtime), a more efficient breakfast, and an earlier time of departure if you wanted to get to school by seven. Granted, while you fell into routines quicker than most, it still took a few days to get used to them.

Today, it seems, is one of those days.

The sun is already well risen by the time you’re halfway down the hill, bearing down on your back and sapping the earth of the very last of its moisture, even with your feet already creating clouds of dust as you run. It’s too hot for spring, too hot to be skittering down into the city in three layers of stiff fabric, and certainly much too hot to have your heart racing wildly because on top of everything it’s too hot to be late. You check your watch, reprimand yourself as you discover that your remaining time has dwindled from fifteen to ten minutes in a twenty minute run, don’t notice the loose clump of rock and skid on your heel down to the bottom of the second (third?) hill. Maybe that improved your time. Another glance at the watch yields that in fact you now have nine minutes left, and you allow yourself to curse in your head as you further increase your pace. The endurance that took workouts, kendo, and martial arts to build is dwindling fast, and you find yourself relying more and more on steep slopes to slide down.

Your breath is harsh and ragged in your ears when you feel its first bass pulsing in your body, growing steadily more prominent until a rough puttering drowns out your breathing and causes your head to pound uncomfortably. But of course, the cause of the majority of your newfound anxiety is the fact that you know exactly what is making the sound and who it belongs to.

“Would’ya look at that,” Oowada gloats. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

He’s slowed down to a crawl to match your pace, slumped over on the handlebars like keeping his balance on these slopes is the easiest thing in the world. Then again, his driving skills must have contributed as qualifying features; otherwise how else could he have been accepted? He doesn’t look at you, eyes trained on the road, but you can see that smirk off to one side of his face, and you know you’re going to get much more grief than that. “The hall monitor famous around Japan, never got below a ninety-something or whatever—I can’t remember your records, don’t really care—perfect attendance wizard Kiyotaka Ishimaru,” he pauses, and you know he’s going to make a big deal out of it, which it is, “is _late_.” He barks out a laugh. “You got eight or so minutes, kid. Think you can make it?”

“Not with you wasting my time,” you snap back, and you are wasting your time talking to him, but you can’t run much faster, and you can see the intersections now, see Hope’s Peak rising above the office buildings, but then you remember the sharp turn you have to take to navigate the last hill safely. You curse in your head again.

“Discrimination, discrimination in the workplace!” He calls out between more laughs from the back of his throat. “School… place. That works, right?”

“I do not discriminate against you.” Your reply is much too quick, and both of you acknowledge it. “You provoke me.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Provoke you. You look for opportunities to screw me over.”

“I do not!” You find your voice rising in both pitch and volume, and every single time you’ve given into his egging, and every single time you’ve wondered why. “You intentionally get yourself into trouble, and what you’re doing in the lunchroom could easily be described as harassment. You’ve used physical violence against me more than once!” Your voice cracks, but if he was looking at you your eyes would meet dead on. “What you are is a delinquent. A typical high-school delinquent.”

His engine revs so loudly you think you might have gone deaf for a few seconds. “You don’t know shit about what that means,” he growls. “I could make you eat your words and then you’d really be late.” You have enough experience to know he means it, and you gulp. Your refusal to participate in violence has led to bruises, scrapes, and black eyes and you fear enough goading might make him do worse. “And to think I had a proposition for you.” He turns to you for a split second, then something clicks and his brow furrows and he stares down the road again.

He slows down as you pick up your pace once gravity is no longer on your side. “Proposition?” You inquire, backpedaling a bit to get back to his speed. “What do you mean?”

“No, no, it’s not important,” he makes a show of brushing it off, “Nothing you’d wanna hear from a typical high school delinquent.”

“Delinquent or not, I’d listen.” Again, much too quick, but if it has to do with getting to school on time, you would listen to anything.

He snickers. “Sure you would. But anyway, hey,” he starts, pausing a bit, perhaps to drink in the moment, or perhaps to find words, though you can’t fathom why, unless he simply doesn’t have them in his vocabulary, which is entirely possible. “What say you hop on and I’ll drive you the rest of the way.” The suggestion floors you.

“ _What_?!” It comes out as a half squeak half croak. “Me, come to school on something this… this…” Now it’s you who can’t find words.

“This what? This intense? Glorious, maybe? C’mon, you gotta admit she’s pretty sweet.” He pats the handlebar of his motorcycle lovingly.

“This _illegal_!” You finish. “It’s walking or cycling only, and you know it. I would never.” He groans.

“See, this is what happens when I try to be nice. I offer a ride to the guy who hates my guts, offer to freakin’ save his ass, since that’s kinda what it’s looking like is at stake, and what does he say? ‘I would never!’” His impression of you is dripping with mock sophistication. “Some thanks I get.”

“It would earn me my first mark, not to mention tarnish my reputation,” you rebuke, and he goes and starts laughing again, just like that.

“Tarnish your reputation? Look at this guy; I can’t believe him!” He looks dead at you as he grins, those canines peeking out. “What reputation?”

You stride ahead, leaning into a sprint, and pretend he never said that. But there he goes, revving that cursed motorcycle and sputtering up to you in seconds. “Hey hey hey hey hey, c’mon,” he whines. “Okay, how about I make a deal. I drop you off a block or so from the school, and you can dash the rest of the way?” You’re not going to be convinced, you’re not going to be convinced, you’re not going to be convinced.

You’re going to be convinced. “…Why are you doing this?” You ask, inching just a bit closer to the motorcycle, but the stench of gasoline is almost enough to drive you back away. He shrugs, shoulders disturbing the darker, unstyled hair hanging in those trademark greasy strands off the back of his head.

“Maybe I’m just a nice person. Ever think of that?” He disproves his own statement just seconds later. “Nah, I just wanna see you scramble, trip over your shoes, get there maybe one minute late and have to slink in. Ooh, or maybe even burst through the door going ‘STAND. BOW.’” You grumble, but you have less than five minutes, and you’d have to wait at intersections otherwise, so you slow down.

“Fine.” You’re convinced. “Stop for me.”

“Stop for me what?” He slows down anyway, but doesn’t stop. “Thought you were the polite one out of the two.” You feel your face heat up.

“Stop for me _please_ ,” you answer, albeit grudgingly, and his grin grows.

“That’s more like it.” You climb on, and it’s awkward against the seat of your pants and even more so against the entirety of your front, considering the space between you and Oowada is now zero. He reeks of cigarettes, even in uniform, but his back is firm, and you can notice it tightening as he revs for the third time. Somehow, he must enjoy the sheer amount of noise the thing produces. “Hold on to me, princess,” he addresses you, and you’re tempted to hit that back in retaliation, but you will not resort to violence. “We’re gonna break the sound barrier.”

“Sound barrier?” you parrot. “You mean speed?” Yes, you realize, he does in fact mean speed, because before you get an answer you’re forced to grab onto his coat for dear life as you’re rocketed down the avenues and hurled around corners. More than once you find yourself halfway suspended off the seat as he turns at a speed you would definitely say risked breaking your neck, if not the sound barrier like he claimed. You don’t know whether your scream or not for those first few moments, because all you want to do is try not to watch the world flying past but at the same time try not to get your face too close to the chokingly smoky driver in front of you. You end up with a nose-full of his blazer anyway as he shifts, perhaps to check his own time, and steps on it even more.

This could very well be the end of you.

He could very well run a light or miss a turn and you would crash in a heap of nicotine and burning flesh, metal, and rubber. Your untimely demise would be as the nationally-renowned hall monitor who foolishly placed his trust in the hands of the reckless delinquent.

“WE’RE GOING TO DIE!” is probably what you shriek the very moment before he skids to a screeching halt inches away from the curb of the very block he promised. You’re nearly thrown off the motorcycle, but you catch your foot on the seat and spend a good deal of time freeing it, your anxiety growing with every second. You open your mouth because as much of a brute as he is it would be an incredible faux pas not to thank him, but he inches forward in the parking space, mutters, “Go already,” to his chalk white knuckles instead of you, and you’re gone, sprinting with all of your might up the concrete and through the door.

You don’t fumble nearly as much with your school shoes as you do with his seat, and your books are all in your hand, so there’s no need to open your cubby. You burst through the door as the bell rings, leaning heavily on your desk as you do, in fact, wheeze out the typical commands to stand at attention and bow to the teacher. It’s a struggle not to slump in your chair the moment you sit down because wow, if that wasn’t the most excitement you’ve had all week. And in a week filled with nothing but trouble from the certain student who just moseyed into the room, chuckling under his breath undoubtedly about his predictions coming true (with, again, not a single gesture to the teacher), that was saying something.

But that student saved your record, of his own accord.

It hits you right in the middle of history, and the amount of questions that flood your mind is certainly historic in number, but not in content. It takes the rest of the class to regain your focus, and even longer to feel like you’re right side up. Because all you can make of your thoughts are the what’s and the how’s and the why’s, especially the why’s. Why did he even come that way, for one? Obviously someone, maybe a member of his gang, maybe Oowada himself lived down the road. But if he lived so close, surely he would’ve found your address out and… you shudder to think. Besides, he seemed more like one of those who lived in the inner city, though you would barely consider where you live the suburbs, and Tokyo is getting more expensive by the season. Why did he stop and start up a conversation with you? Knowing him, he would’ve thrown up dust from his motorcycle all into your face and rode away, leaving you to be the one who was late, for once, and him to surpass you in terms of today’s attendance.

But he didn’t. He gave you a ride. That, of course, is the biggest why you have. He hated you, right? You were his sworn nemesis, the source of almost every mark on his record, while he was the object of your exasperation, the case you could never hope to crack. And for some reason, he took time out of his morning to make sure you made it to school on time. You decide over a store-bought lunch at your desk that these questions need answers, and the only way you could get them is to ask the man himself, and in your mind you arrange a schedule (one of the first ones you haven’t written down on paper, because what if people _saw_?) to confront him during cleaning duty. You, thankfully, are free for the week, but Oowada isn’t so lucky. You’ll confront him while he’s clapping erasers, look him dead in the eye, and… and do what? Say ‘no, you aren’t allowed to treat me with respect, please go back to harassing me because the thought of you having a good side makes me uncomfortable’? Impossible. What you need is end to the limbo you’ve been thrown into these past few weeks, something that would calm the two of you down until you could at least stay in the same room without wanting to make a jab at one another.

Oh.

A challenge.

Aka, a death wish. No, don’t you dare think like that. You have more courage than him, surely. You need to act the way you think. Nevertheless, an icy feeling of dread weighs you down with steadily increasing intensity as you return to your classes and go about the rest of your school day. By the time bell rings and the exempt students file out, you feel a little more than a bit green in the gills.

Oowada is, in fact, clapping erasers when you find him after class—at least, he’s pretending to, but the negligible amount of dust he raises clues you in to just how much he does not care about those cleaning duties. Another student slides past with a push broom, humming something you’ve surely heard on the radio before, and he ever so kindly picks up his feet for her, ever so unkindly setting them down on the top of the desk he sits at. He picks up the neglected erasers once you enter his field of vision, grinning as he claps them, with a newfound vigor, right into your face. “You’re welcome.”

It takes a while for you to stop coughing before you answer. “E-excuse me?”

“You’re welcome. For savin’ your ass, right?” He looks at you expectantly, the second time today.

“Right, about that—” Oowada groans, tipping his head back over the top of his chair.

“C’mon, I got a please from you this morning; I should get a thank you too. ’S only fair.” You don’t have time for this. Martial arts training starts only an hour after school ends, and although it’s a short walk, you still need time to change, and you certainly don’t need another attendance scare.

“About this morning,” you ignore a second groan, “I need to know why you did it, Oowada. Why should you even care about whether I’m late or not?” Great, you sound like you’re performing theatrics.

“I told you already,” he peers under that absurd pompadour at you, “maybe I’m just a nice guy. Ever think of that? Or can’t you fathom it?” He sneers.

“Can’t fathom it… of course I can fathom it! I’m not close minded.” He presses his chalk covered hands to his cheeks, swaying mockingly.

“Why kid, I’m touched!” He breaks into a falsetto that makes you cringe.

“Look,” you begin, which possibly gets his attention because he drops his demeanor and meets your eyes. “Our behavior is taking a toll on our performance at school, or at least it is on mine. I want this rivalry to either end, or I want us to get to a point where it doesn’t hinder our academics.” He raises an eyebrow.

“So, like, a final battle.”

“In a sense, yes,” you offer. “You did me a favor, so you may choose the specifics. I will even… I will even go so far as to fight you if it is not on school grounds.” Up goes the second eyebrow, just like that.

“You’re in for it, then.” His canines poke out in his grin. “I ain’t gonna fight you, but believe me, you’ll wish I did.” You’re already wishing. “So, you know that bath house up at the top of that hill there, on the north side?”

“The hill where you can see the entire city?”

“That’s the one. Now, it’s got a kickass sauna in it, right? Legendary. They say it’s a miracle you survive in that heat, much less stay conscious.” You know where this is going, and your confidence grows with your apprehension.

“So, we’re going to decide the victor of this rivalry with a contest to see who can stay conscious the longest?”

“Bingo.”

“Give me a time.”

“Friday night, since you’re stingy, from the end of school to whenever one of us keels over. I don’t give a crap about your curfew, so be prepared to get beat. Kapeesh?”

“Kapeesh.” The word is foreign on your tongue, but you stride away feeling like a master of every language, and leave the building with your shoulders back and your head held high. Mondo Oowada is about to get his, and you are going to watch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the second time I swear that no other chapter will update this slowly. Which was kind of ridiculous since I had an entire manga chapter to draw from. But hopefully I was able to pace and incorporate it well enough. Enjoy the first of the angst and expect much more~ (these boys don't belong to me I just make them suffer)

Oowada doesn’t bother you much at all the next couple of days, and really, it should provide you with more relief than it does, and it certainly shouldn’t bother you. Nevertheless, how little of him you see is, at the very least, a bit unnerving. He’s quiet in his little corner at the back of the classroom, doesn’t attempt to get your attention while you’re trying to listen. Doesn’t ‘playfully’ shove you in the direction of the washroom when you pass in the halls, and by the end of lunch there isn’t a single food item stuck in your hair.

This is by no means normal.

It’s the second day in a row where you stare intently into the compartments of your lunchbox as if the answers to all your questions are hidden between the grains of rice. He has to be planning something, surely. Otherwise why else would he be this subdued? Perhaps he is trying to appear as amicable as possible, so your behavior toward him leading up to your competition will seem even more unjust, thereby pulling the respect you earned towards him. Then again, judging by the number of people that actually speak casually to you, he doesn’t have much respect to steal. Or perhaps he’s simply resting, preparing his body and his mind for the event in which he will surely struggle with everything he has to retain consciousness.

However, the fact that he just seems so calm makes you waver, ever so slightly, in your confidence that he will be the one on the floor, waiting for the world to stop spinning, instead of you. You have rested up as well, you know that much: slept longer, eaten healthier, acknowledged that you are not the only person on the disciplinary committee and tried not to overwork yourself in student legal matters. Nevertheless, there’s a hard, cold lump forming in the pit of your stomach as the classes pass and the week threatens to draw to a close.

Thankfully, you haven’t scheduled any after-school activities with the committee, but that leaves you standing in the middle of the classroom, uncomfortably alone with Oowada and flinching almost negligibly as he guides a push broom between desks. His suit jacket is slung over the back of a nearby chair, leaving him with only that wife beater that you _really_ hope he washes on a regular basis to cover his torso and no wonder his blows hurt so much. You can see the prominent muscles on his upper arms working clear as day as he brushes at a particularly unpleasant spot on the floor. Despite how lazy an impression he gives, he’s certainly fit, and if he’s built up as much endurance as you have, the conditions of the sauna should mean nothing to him. You gulp and remind yourself that you’re used to trying harder, anyway, and that since both of you are going to be bare-backed for hours, you might as well get used to it. The setting sun through the windows is making that tan skin appear an unnatural shade of orange, reflecting off the sheen of his perspiration and highlighting the daunting dips and curves of his arms and chest and _how on earth_ is that pompadour not drooping in the slightest from his efforts?

One moment his eyes are trained on another troublesome stain and the next they’re making unexpected contact with yours. You flinch visibly as you notice a playful glint in them, even more so as he drawls,   
“Like what you see, princess?”

“You mean the job you’re doing?” You attempt to salvage your dignity, already knowing you’ll fall flat with the next words you say. “Because it is promising to see you cleaning thoroughly, for once.”

“Thoroughly,” he mimics, letting loose a couple of hoarse laughs. “You don’t have to play babysitter to get into the gun show.” He flat out grins, leaning on his push broom and balancing surprisingly well. “You could’a just asked, though what I’d do with that information is up to me and _technically_ I can do a lot before the final battle to get the word out.” You bristle.

“There is no word to get out,” you snap back, to which he just laughs harder.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, your secrets safe with me…” he moseys on over with his push broom and manages to ruffle your hair a bit too hard for a second before you wriggle out of his grasp, “…for now. Speaking of now, I think now’s the time I blow this joint. Consider my work here done.” He tosses the broom and dustpan in the closet with a cacophonous clang, forces the closet door shut, and grabs his suit jacket with a lazy swing of his arm. “You want me to drive you again, Ishimaru?” he asks over his shoulder, shrugging on his jacket and concealing his figure once again.

Ishimaru. He’s being earnest, for once. Nevertheless, your temper gets the best of you, and you reply with cold authority, “ _We_ will be walking. It’s not too far, and it’s a chance to stretch our legs.” Oowada frowns.

“You expect me to haul your limp ass back to my bike once you’re out cold?” There’s assurance in his voice as well as annoyance, and you’re sure the only cold you feel is the fact that it had cooled down considerably outside once the sun went down.

“No,” you retort, “I will voluntarily carry you back to your motorcycle once you’ve fainted.” You let yourself smile. “It’s only fair, after all.”

“You’ve gotten cocky all of a sudden. What’re you compensating for?”

“Nothing, unlike someone.”

“Pff—you’re kidding. A dirty joke from the hall monitor? And me without my camera—hell, me without my popcorn!” You continue on like this for the rest of the walk, making jabs back and forth, even puffing them out as you schlep up that notoriously steep hill to the bath house. Just that experience, for you, is an odd combination of frustration, giddy anticipation, and a pinch of liberation. Every time you say something particularly clever, Oowada’s sharp eyes go wide and he coughs like the breath is driven out of him, but it always leads into flat out laughter at you. If any members of your family heard the words that came out of your mouth on that trip, despite the fact that you refrained from cursing and being directly vulgar, they would have your head in an instant. But despite how biting you try to make your roundabout remarks, Oowada just makes those surprised sounds and laughs. Despite how hard you try to get under his skin in return for him getting under yours, he even congratulates you sometimes. “Thank god, you’re loosening up already.” He claps you on the back, but it’s not the same force that sent you hurtling into cubbies for the last few weeks. “Beating you is gonna be fun.”

It’s not the easiest thing to get into the sauna, considering the woman in the lobby is insistent that as soon as only fifteen minutes were up, you would have to at least take a break. Oowada explains immediately that this is for a very important and very official competition, and passing out is kind of the _point_ , but he concedes when he notices that she seems to be confined to the front and probably won’t abandon her post to nag what she most likely viewed as ‘crazy teenagers.’ Granted, Oowada is the only one of the two that fits into that category, but it would be unnecessary to point that out based on your assumption alone.

You change quickly, separated by several walls of lockers from Oowada, but to your surprise you find him waiting for you the moment you open the door, and, “Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, gesturing to the fact that he’s sitting, sweat already beading on his brow, fully clothed. He frowns, using his tall coat collar as a fan.

“What d’you mean? I’m just providing some interesting obstacles. All the better to beat you when I’m technically headed to knockout city.” He beckons you to sit down, and you do, on the other side of the sauna, glaring, caddy corner, at that ridiculous pompadour that is _still_ upright despite every single physical law that should prove otherwise and good gracious it has its own towel. If there is ever a night you won’t be able to handle, it’s this one.

The first half hour or so is made completely of a heavy, stifling silence. Your eyes are locked on each other, looking for the slightest bit of give in the other’s expression or body language. As much as you hate to admit it, Oowada was right about the sauna; there’s already sweat falling down into your eyes, and breathing feels like you’re sucking in water, which you retain in the red tinge slowly spreading across your face and ears. Granted, he isn’t doing much better. He fidgets and sways, ever so slightly, sometimes using his hair’s personal towel to mop the sweat from his forehead. But you never break eye contact. No matter how much you wanted to with those eerily pale eyes boring into yours, judging every twitch and breath.

The silence is almost as unbearable as the heat; you admit that you’re used to the stinging banter that goes on between you, and this is such a deviation from the norm that you have to open your big mouth and say something. “You’ve been awfully restless these past few minutes.” You state the obvious. As if you haven’t both realized that.

He sneers. “And the sky is blue. So you’re not going to comment on the fact that your face looks like what would happen if you gave a hot springs monkey strong wasabi?” He leans back, resting the back of his head on his hands and watches you fumble for a reply.

“My face has been red… s-since birth,” is the best you can do. It’s pitiful, but it’s a bit hard to think straight, much less translate that into intelligent conversation.

“What happened to all that sass on the way here?” Oowada inquires, obviously holding back laughter. “If your face has been red since birth, then that must be some shade we can’t wrap our heads around. Congratulations, wise-ass,” he crosses his legs with his foot twitching impatiently on his knee, “you can do great things for science with those cheeks’a yours.”

“If I were to do great things, I would do them with my head and my spirit, and they wouldn’t be for science,” you retort in another sad effort to defend yourself, to which Oowada replies,

“You got something against science? Thought you were an all-around guy. Next report card, let me see chemistry, yeah?”

“I will, and I will assure you that I excel in it, unlike someone who didn’t so much as appear for weeks.”

“You’re really going on about that? I was managing my gang, which just so happens to be the biggest and baddest in the _country_ , if you forgot. It’s not a small job.”

“Not a small job. As if making a group just to let out violent impulses, consume illegal substances, and run away from the responsibilities of the _real_ world is even worth skipping school to tend to.” You’re raising your voice now, and maybe it’s because your mind is hazy with heat, maybe because despite everything it is coming to a head and you’d almost forgotten why you couldn’t stand him until now. “I don’t know which is more cowardly, abandoning your studies or participating in something so _heartless_ , not to mention gutless—”

His hand slams down on the wood with an open palm, and his fingers grip the wood once they’ve made contact so hard that his hands _vibrate_. “Call me heartless one more time,” he whispers through clenched teeth, and you really shouldn’t have said any of that, because his whisper is a thousand times more terrifying than his shout. “I dare you.”

It comes out before you can stop yourself. “Why shouldn’t I? Are you just going to bruise me again? Is that how you lead?” It’s awful. Your mouth seems to run by itself, but your throat is tight and every word feels like bile.

“I DON’T KNOW HOW I LEAD!” His voice is a sforzando rather than a crescendo, that much is certain, and you yield enough to cover your ears and break eye contact, because there is something other than malice in them that makes you feel suddenly small. “You think I’d get mad if I did? Are you that dense?” He jumps to his feet, not even wavering at a motion that should have burned and disoriented him. “You don’t know the ground you’re treading, you piece of shit! Try having your brother _die_ and leave the gang on your shoulders and see what fucking happens!”

The most you can manage is a timid “oh,” as your heart loses its footing and crashes into your stomach, beating wildly in protest and taking your vocal chords with it. The sauna turns uncomfortably cold, and there’s an even colder moment of silence in between the two of you for much too long. “I…” you manage, finally, and it’s a horrid attempt to find ground under your feet when really, redeeming yourself is the last thing you should do. “I didn’t know—”

“ _Damn right you didn’t know_!” He snarls before you even finish your word. “You think I would tell you a damn thing, seeing as how you just turn it around?! You think that just because you haven’t gotten your dean buddies to oust me means you’re some philanthropist?! Well news flash: you’re fucking wrong.” His voice audibly _cracks_ , and his hands are trembling by his sides, balled into fists but you don’t know whether it’s rage he’s keeping down or something you really don’t want to see.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is nearly inaudible compared to how he has been roaring at you, mouth running like yours was before the well ran dry.

“Sorry for what? My brother, or the shit you made me put up with?” He counters, eyes now hidden behind that pompadour. “I don’t need,” he forces out through gritted teeth, “your pity. It means nothing. I got the whole gang on my shoulders and everything to prove; that’s my project. You’ve probably never had a bad day in your life that didn’t have to do with a test score. What do you know?”

It hits you square and hard in the chest, like your words most likely hit him. “What do I know?” You echo, and it’s your voice that crescendos at an eerie pace. “You don’t seem to believe that I have just as much to prove as you do. You learned about former Prime Minister Toranosuke Ishimaru, correct? Or did you bother to even pick up your government book?”

Oowada blinks. “Toranosuke? Didn’t have a clue, right? Basically kicked himself out?”

“The one you are referring to,” you force out, “is my grandfather, who could do anything you asked him except account for his naiveté and because of his downfall, guess who’s paying?” You push yourself to your feet, not even caring if you stumble if it means matching his challenges. “In case you didn’t notice, reputation has always been essential to my family, and seeing as we _have none at the moment_ , every test score I get is one step closer or farther away from getting it back. And getting it back means providing my family with the money they need to live comfortably, which you obviously wouldn’t expect an _honors student_ to have trouble doing! Now ask me again what I know.” You hear your voice crack, slightly, but too much nonetheless. “Tell me again that my responsibilities are worth nothing!”

There’s another long, terrible moment of silence in that suffocating heat. From across the sauna, you hear Oowada swallow thickly, hear fabric shuffling as he fidgets. Your throat is constricting steadily, and your voice is building just under your Adam’s apple, even though you don’t have anything more to say. He curses under his breath, but there isn’t the energy in them that lets you know they’re directed at you.

Then, after second upon agonizing second, he chuckles. Not that hoarse laugh you’ve heard so much of throughout the afternoon, but something low and resigned and, for once, quiet. “You didn’t know shit about me, did you?” You glance up just in time to find his eyes, and would have glanced back down had he not been about to continue. “And I gotta say, I didn’t know shit about you, either. You gonna be prime minister?” He asks, out of the blue. All the words that were building up suddenly catch in your throat and your only choice is to nod, quickly and silently. He chuckles again, and replies, “Good.”

The statement dumbfounds you. The tightness in your throat releases suddenly, surges into your eyes, and you struggle to keep them wide open, for if you blink you won’t have any barriers left. With titanic effort, you mouth the word “why?”

“Figure you’ve already got some experience under your belt.” You try to stare through his approaching footsteps, his approaching figure. But all of a sudden there’s a hand on your shoulder that isn’t shoving you down and you realize with a jolt that you’ve lost. “I better see you on TV, got it?”

And you can’t stand it. You can’t stand that now of all times you’re beginning to blubber like a fool, tears that are more acidic than salty rolling in fat drops down to the tip of your nose. It’s not even a big deal; it’s just support, the same you receive from your parents, from your teachers, from the managers of all the jobs you applied for, the same but different, as cliché as it sounds. They are all adults, their vision of success prepackaged into the same box you idolize, a thousand aging faces, each and every one your hero. Oowada has his hand on your shoulder and still smells like more cigarettes than he should, his grip a bit too tight and you can’t stand the way he’s smiling while you make a colossal idiot of yourself with nothing to wipe your nose on. He’s young and so unlike every idol you’ve ever had, so far outside the box that you can’t make heads or tails of him and you can’t stand it.

You couldn’t stand him, either; you couldn’t stand the way he could bypass your petty fear of the different, how he could brush off his bullying of you so quickly, change gears at the drop of a hat. You couldn’t stand being as much at fault as he was, couldn’t stand being one side of a coin with a thin edge that you could have—and should have—peered over the moment he sent your water container sliding across the hall. It’s the beginning of understanding, not near complete, and it’s nothing to cry over, but you end up breathing in hiccups anyway, filmy mucus resting awkwardly on your upper lip because you didn’t dare move a muscle until now.

Oowada blinks, pulling his hand away as if he had taken his gesture too far. “Didn’t know you were a crier, either.” The smile that had faltered when he noticed returns with a sigh. “See? Case in point. About me not knowin’ you, that is.” You manage a nod, finally trying to compose yourself and sniffing what hasn’t already succumbed to the force of gravity. “Say, speaking of which,” he begins, “this was supposed to be the final battle, yeah? So you better promise not to rail on me after this.”

You swallow, grimace at the taste, manage, “Promise.”

“And I ain’t gonna pick any fights with you either. Truth is I’d say we’re pretty similar, but I don’t know for sure yet. How about we get to know each other better and see what all this fighting was for?”

You look up and he blurs back into view, still smiling like you’ve never seen, and manage a smile of your own. Through the careful balancing act of your runny, ruddy nose, swollen eyelids, and sticky lips it probably looks strained and farcical, but you see something—you don’t know what—brighten on his face nevertheless when you answer, “That sounds good.”

Finally, you sniff, but you do so all at once and in an instant your nose is completely blocked and in an instant you’re gasping breath in through a gaping mouth hard and fast. Apparently, hyperventilating in a sweltering sauna does not yield the best results, because one minute you’re catching a glimpse of Oowada’s eyes widening more than you’ve seen them and the next moment your knees knock awkwardly against a heavenly cool matted floor. Gravity seems to be straining on the majority of your body while your arm is slung across broad, tense shoulders. When your vision rearranges itself, you turn your head and stare incredulously at Oowada, who thinks that holding an entire person via their wrist and the ghost of a hand on their back is a foolproof way to carry someone.

He catches your eye for the umpteenth time and answers your unspoken question. “You were barely out. Half a minute, at most.”  His voice doesn’t have a gloating air to it; rather, a monotonous concern edges it.

You detach yourself from him and balance yourself sitting formally on your calves. You tip your head down and smile weakly, hands curling into weak fists on your knees. “I lost, then.”

“Nah,” he drawls, waving his hand as if to dissolve your previous statement. “I forfeit.” You sputter out a laugh, and before you can grasp the situation both you and Oowada are leaning helplessly on the sauna doorframe, convulsing in near hysterical laughter and drinking in the cool air that turns the sweat heavy on your bodies. “Okay, what the actual hell,” Oowada manages between hoarse giggles, “is up with this night?”

A thought comes to your mind that silences your laughter and as cool air weighs you down, some sort of warm force lifts something in your chest. “Do you think this is how friendship starts?” You ask, and he gives you something like that look you received when you asked about your bike. You wonder exactly how far your innocence extends.

But he just shrugs under the drenched fabric of his overcoat, fans the collar against himself, and says. “If you want it to be.”

You think that, maybe, you do.


End file.
